The Nostalgia Standard

Well I am coming up to a birthday this week and it is just as good as a new year to make you mark the things that you have accomplished in the time between. It is also a good excuse to compare where you were to were you are (also a good excuse to get depressed.)


Really this year has been a learning curve for me. I have had quite the hard/harsh slap of good old reality. Painful but much needed. I have been in a dilemma of sorts within my personal and my creative. So much are they one and the same that when one falls so to does Rome.  Well I have had a…let’s say “checkered” past. I have fallen to chronic illness/disease. Overcome though seven or so years worth of battle leaves one with a hard to shake after illness plus depression that a few more years tacked on would find the hard/harsh remedy for. Through out all of this add school, puberty, graduations, family fall outs, personal abandonment’s, breakups and music choices I still don’t remember making, but let me tell you that a cd regret can be almost as bad, if not worse as a one night- who the hell is that- stand. Now I was a scrappy fighter. Street smart and poised. I fought long and hard the brittleness of being that was engulfing me. I gave, poured myself into my creative. My constant. The most consistent thing in my life was my serial comic TBM. Well as I got worse so too did my story telling. Not in result but in action. In reality. It became a struggle. Hard. I could not do it with the same effortless passion I once seemed to so easily posses. That’s when it began…the curse of nostalgia.

As it got harder, I gave myself comfort challenges; i.e. adaptations, screen plays, original works etc. To see if my skill was just that. Applicable, workable and reliable. I got stuff done, but it seemed like work. Then I had to stop. Crash, burn. I was ill and I could not be strong, could not fight any more. I abandoned self as body had abandoned me.

~They say that if you love something you are to let it go and that if it comes back it was meant to be~

The story of my stories. So often have I wished that they would not come back. That they would let me go so that I could them. Yet without them who would I be? Yet as the years stacked up. As the time past and I was being pulled into directions unknown and unpreventable I was trapped in memory and imagery. I had inspiration, that had never left me. No what drove me mad was the lack of ability to make imagination physical. Inspiration reality. Time, strength, weakness, seemed all against me. Yet I would push. That would piss me off. It should flow. It shouldn’t be hard, Shouldn’t be work. Shouldn’t be forced. Yet it should also never be nothing. I was juxtaposed and contradicted in every thought. Me a fixer, able to help every one else to the other side unable to help me in my most basic of needs. Like refusing a bird air.

Why can’t I be like I was? It like it was? There in lied the problem. Resentment is birthed when one expects something that does not come. Well I grew resentful. Why did I stop to heal? Why did I waste this time here, when I could have focused on myself. On my creative. Waste grew to be my verb. Because all else seemed to end a fruitless endeavor that ultimately took time and me away from self and creative. Away from personal accomplishment trying to make all ends meet. Instead of self it was given to others and in doing so was used up, depleted and…wasted. Why? Became the question. For what? What was my purpose, my creative and what I thought but not doubted as talent’s purpose? What was the point? Why?

Incidences happened to propel these thoughts into doubts. Seeds that took root. That grew louder, stronger with each thing that  seemed to add to their argument.


Re-live. Re-felt. Re-experienced. All from a different perspective. Filter gone. The pallor of your nostalgic wonderland of golden standard washed away.  Washed away into the reality of past, present and future.

That was not my best, yet I had been holding everything up to it. Comparing it without realizing. Failure was evolution, growth, change. Not for worse. Just not staying the same. Yet when one is changing and still an open wound, they do not feel the pain for the healing, they feel it for the injury.

That was not my peak. Not my best. Not my standard.

Justice, vindication, recognition for things that are now ghosts. That I lived to redeem. Living in the present in the shadow of past. When it was all a fairy land made up to keep me going, get me through. Now on the other side and left with the dust. For nothing can live up to a dream. Our expectations are either too high and everything falls short in comparison, or we surpass expectations by embracing what comes, how they change and grow with reality.

I embrace the little girl lost, for who and what she was. What the past paved the way for. For the good memories and times. Not the standard but the parts it played in me here today. In the same gripe I release her. Acknowledge and excepted.

My Standard and my best are now in my hands. For me to set purpose to. Here and now…no shadows…just presence.





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